Lapses
by singasweetrussianlullaby
Summary: Bad Cop begins experiencing memory lapses that are becoming increasingly dangerous- has he finally cracked or will something good come from this?


Lapses

The freeway, at this time of night, was mostly empty. People had come home from work and were at their respectives residences or had, perhaps, chosen to go out with friends- leaving only an open road and the occasional disappearing headlight. The outside world was blending together, becoming nothing more than barely distinguishable colors and the sound of wind tearing through the open windows.

It took the driver a few minutes to realize he had no idea where he was going. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his fingers were sore and his foot pressed the gas pedal firmly to the floor. The speedometer informed him he was going almost twice the speed limit- and yet, somehow he had managed to keep a fairly straight trajectory and not crash into anything. Immediately, he eased off the gas, feeling a twinge of embarrassment and confusion; after all, he was a former police officer, and such a reckless thing would have easily gotten him thrown off the force.

Going a much more reasonable speed now, he tried to concentrate and remember how exactly he had gotten into this situation. The events of the day were hazy at best- but a few things were solid enough to be fact; he had pulled himself out of bed, went to get coffee (judging by the discarded paper cup on the seat beside him) and visited his parents. But after that, there was nothing. No hint of saying goodbye or getting back into his car or- heaven forbid- making a fool of himself by breaking the law. As frightening as it was, such memory lapses were happening more frequently. First he'd find himself in the kitchen with a glass of milk in hand with no recollection of ever pouring (or buying) it. Then, somebody would mention a conversation he didn't remember having- but now it was becoming dangerous.

He pulled to the side of the road and took the key from the ignition, allowing himself to relax and reflect so his fingers and back would stop cramping. Sweat rolled down his face. He removed his aviators and set them on the dashboard, wiping his forehead with some spare tissues in the glove department. And there he would stay until he was certain it was safe enough for him to drive home (after a quick glance out the window, it looked as though that was where he was headed in the first place). More than anything, he was becoming increasingly desperate to know why these odd lapses in memory were happening but, frustratingly, everywhere he turned for answers came up empty. Countless hours spent hunched over a laptop with nothing but a freshly brewed cup of coffee and determination made up most of his nights as of late. To think he used to be so good at digging up dirt in order to find people and bring them to justice…

That warranted a laugh. Those days were far behind him now, and he intended to keep it that way. Still, it was odd that those skills hadn't carried over to this much simpler life he led now. Because that was his speciality.

All together, the laughter stopped. He found himself looking into the mirror hanging overhead, as if expecting a miracle to happen. But no- those were the same tired, guilty eyes that always stared back.

He hated those eyes. Resentment was slowly building in his stomach as he cast a cursory glance over the disfiguring scars that now littered his face- they were a constant reminder of the man he used to be; a sheep, blind, willing to follow orders for even the slightest mention of praise. He couldn't look at himself anymore, and focused instead on taking deep breaths to slow his rapid heartbeat and ease his fingers off the steering wheel. Berating himself and wallowing in self pity did not suit him- he quickly learned, after falling into despair soon after the whole ordeal was through- and he had long since learned more creative outlets. Kicking things, including but not limited to furniture and walls, helped a little bit. He was never one to be willing and open to sharing his feelings and opted instead for pushing them aside to fester into something unpleasant- it was not the best option, he knew this, but it was the most tidy.

Some time had passed and he felt considerably better. Starting the car once more, he exhaled deeply and told himself that he wasn't far from his home. He would get there, park the car, unlock his apartment and go to bed without interruption.

It wasn't clear where the line was between what actually happened and things he must have imagined. He had felt this way before- almost as if watching himself go through the motions from above. From the back, unable to see the face of the driver, he watched as the car took him home, parked in its usual space, and the man stepped out. But then things began to fade and meld together and nothing made sense. The next thing he could remember clearly, was the humidity. It was bright, almost painfully so, and his hand was poised several inches from the now foggy bathroom mirror, his index finger extended as if he was ready to write something on the glass. But he had stopped himself mere seconds before anything could be written- so now he stood there awkwardly, furrowing his brow as he tried to remember how exactly he had gotten here from the sidewalk. A few minutes went by in silence, as if he was willing his hand to do what it had wanted to, but no such message came.

It was a waste of time standing there, hoping that some some turn of fate would somehow, magically, write on the mirror. By then, the steam was beginning to disappear and he could make out his reflection; he grunted and didn't stay long. Sleep did not offer any peace- it was plagued by nonsensical dreams and every once in awhile a gut-wrenching nightmare. Both he had grown accustomed to, but despite telling himself he was mentally prepared for whatever his subconscious would throw at him, he'd get a curveball. It was, in all honestly, exhausting. Whether conscious or not, he couldn't catch a break; and, perhaps, this was understandable. There were many issues he hadn't bothered to resolve or simply did not know how to.

Bad Cop was never a religious person by any stretch of the imagination, but if somebody was up there listening to him right now, his only wish was for things to go back the way they were. Not regarding being underneath President Business's thumb- no, he wanted his partner back.


End file.
